Lecterphile Versus Census Taker
by Demeter1973
Summary: You can't make this stuff up.


The following is based on actual events. Two weeks ago. You can't make this stuff up. I know, I've tried.

* * *

The sound of a knock on the door jolts me from my light doze. _What the fuck?_ I check the clock and feel disbelief morphing into a heavy dose of irritation. 8:30 on a Saturday morning, one of the blessed mornings in which my two children, affectionately referred to as Monkey #1 and Monkey #2 in a nod to Dr. Seuss, remain blissfully slumbering. For the moment . . .

After stumbling out of bed, I am only vaguely concerned that I probably shouldn't answer the door braless, more concerned that I really ought to put on some coffee before seeing to the door; it would be for the benefit of my early caller, after all. I don't do well without coffee. But, I cannot pass the front door and make it to the kitchen without being seen unless I perform a commando trench crawl. I'm not quite willing to sacrifice that much dignity, so I just roll my still-gummy eyes and meander to the door to see who in the holy hell has the nerve to be out and functioning this early. Besides, the knocking is bound to wake 2 year old Monkey #2 if it keeps going. This will not bode well for my rather persistent early morning caller.

Looking through the glass portion of the door while reminding myself that I must get some blinds so I can ignore future unwanted guests, I spy a plump brown woman carrying a clipboard and sporting a badge. _A salesman? Now? Un-fucking-believable!_ I steel myself and open the door, not bothering to hide my growing anger at this intrusion.

"Good morning," comes a timid and heavily accented voice, "I am with the United States Census Bureau. Here is my ID," she shows me the backside so I cannot read the multisyllabic name that sing-songs from her mouth. _Hello, Mumbai call-center? This is Demeter. You seem to be missing your office idiot. She's standing on my front stoop._ "I am here to collect your information. May I verify your address as 3232 Wayward Lane, Nashvegas, TN 37000 (actual address omitted to protect the innocent and guilty)?"

"Look, it's 8:30 in the freakin'morning, I worked all week, I had this one chance to sleep in," I begin, forgetting my Southern manners and whaling into her. Right on cue, 2 year old Monkey #2 starts calling 'Out bed, Mama?' and 5 year old Monkey #1 runs out of her bedroom with a chipper 'Good morning, Mama. Who's at the door?' _Could this get any better?_ "I have to take care of my kids. Can you just call or leave me a form or whatever?"

**My, my. A Census Taker. What delicious possibilities.**

_OK, doctor, I'm not in writing mode right now. Pipe down so I can get rid of this chick!_

**Please, dear Demeter, do mind your manners. Though I'm relegated to your internal dialogue at the moment, that is no excuse to be rude.**

_Sorry, but, um, I'm a little busy right now. Be right back!_

Tikka Massala, as I will call her from now on, continues non-plussed, "Ma'am, if I could just verify your address as 3232 Wayward Lane, Nashvegas, TN 37000?"

"Look, as I mentioned, it's early and I'm busy, but no, my address is actually 3232 Wayward Lane, Nashtown, TN 37001."

"It's not 3232 Wayward Lane, Nashvegas, TN 37000?"

I meet her blank stare as I contemplate which blunt object I could use to end this conversation A.S.A.P. "No, it's 3232 Wayward Lane, Nashtown, TN 37001." I can see that she has several neighboring addresses on her clipboard list. I note that, should she survive this encounter, perhaps one of my redneck neighbors will dispatch her for me. I smile a little.

**That's my girl.**

_Be quiet, please, doctor._

**Why don't you just speak to me out loud? Perhaps she'll leave if she thinks that you are crazy.**

_No way!_

**Then why don't you let me out, hmm?**

_Double no way! Hold on, her lips seem to be moving again._

**Oh, don't worry. I wouldn't miss this for the world.**

_I'm sure you wouldn't!_

"But, according to our records, your address is 3232 Wayward Lane, Nashvegas, TN 37000," she speaks slowly, as if perhaps this is going to inspire some sort of cosmic revelation that my address has been wrong for all of these years.

"Look, sweetie, the U.S. Postal Service and the IRS have no trouble finding me. Don't your agencies ever talk, you know, like over coffee or at your 'How to Harass and Annoy the General Public' Seminars?"

"I am going to have to check with my supervisor," she fumbles for her cell phone.

"You do that."

**It's truly a pity you don't have any fava beans. And, really, Demeter, your wine selection is abysmal.**

_My house, my business. There's nothing wrong with Riesling!_

**Tsk tsk. You've been reading about me long enough. One would think you might have developed better taste by now.**

_So, what ungodly expensive wine goes with curry?_

**Oh, my, that's a good one. We'll have to discuss that sometime soon. Right now, though, it appears your guest is trying to get your attention. You must be an attentive hostess now.**

_Oh, right. Back to it, then._

"Ma'am, I will have to check with my supervisor, but could you answer these few questions? It will take about 10 minutes of your time," her eyes are wide and imploring, or maybe she's just dim. I can't tell.

I'm getting huffier by the minute, "I already said no. Can you leave me the questions and I'll get to them later? I really have to get my kid."

"I'm so terribly sorry to bother you. Here is a form," she hands it to me. It's in Spanish.

I inform her that I don't speak Spanish, while I utter a few choice words in Dutch. She apologizes and fumbles in her bag again while I leave her at the front door so I can go fetch Monkey #2. He has a very smelly diaper. This just keeps getting better and better.

When I return, the Census Taker has moved from the front stoop into my living room. I am visibly livid, having not extended an invitation. Monkey #1 is asking Tikka Masala if she would like to come to her room and see her Barbies. I don't intervene, choosing instead to work on changing Monkey #2's diaper before he can squirm away. Tikka Masala has the nerve to look mortified.

"So is it alright to do the questions now?" she asks.

"No, but since you came in without my permission what's stopping you?" I fling back at her while I get down to the dirty business.

She is apparently too stupid to get how pissed off I am, and so she launches into her questions with oblivious abandon, "Just to verify, how many people live in your –"

"Four," I quip.

"I need to finish the full question. How many people –"

"Four."

"But –"

"Four. We don't have tenants, we don't have extended family living here. Just me, hubby, and kids, unless you count the cats."

"The what?"

"Cats, C-A-T-S." I know unemployment is roughly 10% right now, but you would think they could find someone who understands English. And humor. Irony would be a bonus.

"Can you spell your name?"

"Yes, indeed I can."

**Shall I fetch the butcher knife?**

_No, not yet anyway._

We spend about 30 minutes going through the complicated process of spelling the names of the members of my household, which are apparently unfamiliar to Tikka Masala. Between Monkey #1, Monkey #2, and the good doctor, I'm think my head might explode. I contemplate getting my _Silence of The Lambs_ DVD and finding the famous scene, but that would probably count as irresponsible parenting. Once we finish with the questions, Tikka Masala spends another 10 minutes chatting with Monkey #1, who has decided that she should stay with us and play. The doctor agrees that she should _definitely_ stay and play. Monkey #2 asks her for juice. I've had enough. Luckily, I am able to funnel her out of the front door. Monkey #1, Monkey #2, and the doctor all whine.

* * *

(7 hours and several cups of coffee later)

The doorbell rings, and a fully dressed well-caffeinated Demeter answers the door, staring in disbelief at the beaming face of Tikka Masala. She smiles, introduces herself, and my jaw drops as she asked she can verify that my address as 3232 Wayward Lane, Nashvegas, TN 37000.

**You know you have to eat her now.**

I stare, watching as a look of dread and embarrassment creeps to her face, "I'm so terribly sorry, my GPS led me to this address. Are you sure it isn't Nashvegas?"

I proudly announce, "Let me get my fava beans," and slam the door. The doctor sighs. I console him with a promise that he can behave as badly as he wants in a few more chapters of _The Watchmaker_. Then again, if she comes back . . .

_Hey, Dr. Lecter, so which wine __**does**__ go with curry?_


End file.
